The Momentum Of Her Tears
by velvetedge
Summary: Dawn grieves, post Gift


The Momentum Of Her Tears

Dawn cried.  A lot. Not in front of them.  They looked at her with more pity than sympathy, and she couldn't take that from a bunch of people that had been planning to kill her.

Sure she would have jumped – she had been about to, before Buffy stopped her.  But that was no one's choice but her own.  These people in her house had wanted her dead.  Would they have grieved so much if she'd died instead?  Would they have looked at Buffy with pity?

Except Spike.  The vampire didn't blame her, didn't think she should have died in Buffy's place.  And he was in love with Buffy!  Why couldn't they see what he saw?  That Buffy had made a choice, that it wasn't something that anyone else could control, that Buffy was the Slayer and that it meant doing awful stuff to save the world.

God, she missed her.  She missed her sister, and she missed her mother.  She missed they life they'd never actually had, but the memories lived on.

Tears sheeted down her face again as she stopped thinking, distracted by the effort of sobbing.  The others stayed away when they could hear her crying.  Once her tantrums had started to include throwing things, they'd backed away, though Giles and Tara still tried to connect every now and again.

They were the worst. Giles would have killed her in a heartbeat, just like he killed Ben.  Sure, she'd tried to hurt Ben herself, but that was self-defense, trying to escape.  If Buffy hadn't thought he needed to be killed, why kill him?  Yeah, they figured she didn't listen to their heated conversations.  She knew.  And Tara.  Tara who'd pointed her out to Glory.  Who hovered now, with the most guilt, asking for the most forgiveness.

Well, there was none coming.  She was too busy crying and screaming and throwing and **grieving** to forgive.  Let them, the grownups, work it out themselves.

She slid the window open and clambered out.  She'd taken over Buffy's room as soon as they'd got back to the house, as soon as everything had sunk in.  She silently dared them to challenge her right to it.  They didn't.  She knew she should move out of her old room, since they needed the space, but she didn't feel up to it.

A small leap, and she landed lightly on the lawn. She turned, and found herself facing a black-clad chest.

He hadn't been coming around much.  She missed him.  She didn't know if there was anything left that could scare her, but she wanted him around just in case.  Protection without question.

He watched her.  Her surprise didn't interrupt her tears.  Her face was red and puffy – he didn't suppose anything had interrupted them for a while.  He stepped back to give her room.  Something in his heart tore as he saw a flash of panic in her eyes.  Still scared to be left alone, he realized.

"Hey."

"Hey," she replied, wiping uselessly at her face with the back of her hand.  She succeeded only in spreading the mess.

He fished in his pocket for something he hadn't carried in over a century, for something he carried now just for her.

She looked at the handkerchief, and laughed a small startled laugh, but took it and cleaned her face.

"Want company?" he asked.

"No," she said, her voice full of need.

Noises near the front door became louder.

"C'mon," he said. "Someone's coming."

Spike ducked around the side of the house, followed closely by Dawn.  He boosted her over the back fence, and together they ran across the Ferguson's lawn.

They walked slowly, Dawn catching her breath from the sprint.

He watched as she avoided looking at him, intent instead on the gravel and twigs she kicked in front of her as she walked.  He searched what he could see of her down turned face for cues.

"Where have you been?" she asked without looking up.

"Outside." She looked up halfway at his revelation. "They haven't exactly done a dis-inviting spell, but I'm none too welcome since the blow up."

"Blow up?" She was looking at him now. "There was an argument?  About what?"

He cursed them silently. Aloud, he said "About you, luv." She winced, and he curled his fingers into a fist, resisting the urge to stroke her hair. "Nothing to worry about – just a difference of opinion.  On how to handle things."

"Oh." She paused. "Outside?"

"Every night."

"So you know?"

"About you sneaking out?"

"You're not mad at me?  For running around alone?"

"You weren't alone, pet.  I was there."

She smiled shyly at him, and burst into a new flood of tears.  Taken briefly aback, he ushered her to a bench facing the playground they'd reached.

"How's school?" he asked, looking for something to break the momentum of her tears.

"I don't go." She'd soaked the handkerchief through, and handed it back to him.  He took it and tucked it back into his pocket.

"But don't they..."

"They don't know," she said tensely. "And I'm not sure they care.  I'm out of the house, aren't I? Somewhere they don't have to look at me."

"Little one …"

"No!" She'd braced herself at one end of the bench, and he was sitting on the other arm.  She regarded him angrily across the divide. "I know they wanted me dead instead of her! I can tell by the way they look at me.  I mean, I'm not real like Buffy, am I?"

Suddenly, surprising them both, she catapulted herself at Spike, burying her face in his chest.

"You didn't, though, right?" she asked.  And she wept.

"Absolutely not," he reassured her.  "I'd protect you they way she did." She looked up at him in a sudden panic, and he shook his head. "No one else's dying on my watch, Niblet.  Glory's dead, thanks to Giles.  You're safe now.  We're all taking care of you."

"But … they …"

"They don't wish you were dead.  They're grieving, and they're confused. That's what you get for being hopeful.  You get lost when things don't turn out perfect.  But they care about you.  They just don't know what to do with you, I bet.  And you're not making it easy, are you?"

He could feel her frown against his chest.

"Trust me," he said, and felt her relax.

"Does it hurt you to look at me?" she asked.

He pulled back so she could see him look at her.

"You see pain?" he asked. "I'm mourning Buffy.  I'm mourning your mum, even. But I'm happy you're alive, and I'm going to keep you that way.  We all are, even though we may disagree on the finer points.  Nobody's is going to have a chance to mourn you."

He stood up, pulling her to her feet.

"I bet I know where you're headed," he said with a smile. "But this time, no petty larceny along the way."

Her blush was just barely visible over her tear-reddened cheeks.  But blood was his area of expertise.  Especially Summers blood.


End file.
